A few years ago, while I was still
earning my BA, I worked a part time job at a small tea company in Union Square.
It was just a minimum wage job that had me slaving away in a space about the
size of a coat closet, brewing tubs of hybrid tea mixtures in the sweltering heat
of the oncoming summer. I took the job, not for the money, obviously, but
because of how much I love the art of tea and it's physical and psychological
benefits. The three young entrepreneurs that started the company, a few months
prior, all came from different cultural backgrounds and happened to come
together, as if by destiny, in a valiant effort to bring tea to this coffee
driven city. There were many a day they had me standing in front of their retro
little store, in the drug infested streets of Union Square, handing out samples
of tea to passer-byers. Some of who only mistook it for pot and I nearly got
mugged a few times in the effort to bring peace and harmony, through tea, to
these people. When I was actually brewing the tea mixtures, even in the
claustrophobia and heat of the tiny room in the back of the store, it was one
of the best jobs I ever had. It was peaceful, mostly because nothing else
besides the tea and I could fit in the room. Also, it felt gratifying to be
making something that people could enjoy and benefit from that was so
particular about its conditions and so time sensitive. It was an introverted,
obsessive-compulsive, perfectionist's dream come true. But, alas, all good
things come to an end and with internships and so forth I had to kiss my tubs
of tea goodbye and move on to greyer pastures. However, between the few months
that I was grateful to work there, and with some time I spent in teahouses in
China the year before; where I saw not only the process of brewing but also the
ceremony behind it, I took with me the knowledge of tea and put it to use often
in my daily life.
Last night was one of those nights
that had me feigning for tea. I woke up sick as a dog and all I wanted to do
was lay in my bed sipping a hot cup of jasmine tea, carefully brewed in a clay
pot like a fine wine in a barrel. Ah, if
only. Instead I had to drag myself to work and pray I didn't blow snot all
over people whenever I sneezed. The only thing that got me through the day was
the thought of sitting at home later, with my hands wrapped around that cup of
tea. But first, I had to buy some. With the heat of summer floating as thick as
a coat around us, the last thing I've been thinking about until I got sick was
a hot beverage. So it never dawned on me to refill my jar until yesterday, when
I needed it the most. And it wasn't just any tea that I needed, however, what I
needed was the real deal, found only in the dungeons of China Town.
Once I was free from the ball and
chain of work, I ran through a downpour of rain and jumped on the next express
train all the way to Canal Street, also known as, knock off central. You want a
Rolex for twenty bucks? You got it. Want
a Prada purse and wallet to match? Right
this way please. Besides luxury knock offs, Canal Street is also where you
can find one of China's best hidden gems in America...tea. I've always had a
hard time with buying products that have been in competition with its origin
companies. For instance, Coca Cola and Pepsi. I'm not a fan of the taste of
Pepsi, for one thing, but it might also be physiological empathy for Coca Cola
that does it. Knowing that Coca Cola came first, I feel some sort of obligation
to respect the father of cola over their competitor, Pepsi. The same goes for
tea. The origins of tea date as far back as 4,500 years ago, in China. Going to
Lipton or Twining for tea, is therefore, out of the question, unless I have no
other choice.
After I got off the train and made
my way towards the end of the dingy, overcrowded street, I reached my
destination. I found this little shop years ago when I was on a trip with some
of my classmates from an Introduction to Chinese class. A few of us, who had
broken off from the rest of the group, walked past it when one of the girls
from the area wanted to stop in. It was when I happened to wander into the
basement of the store that I found this amazing, secret place that no tourist seems
to have gone before. The little shop, for one thing, is full of grocery items
that you would have to either know what it was already or be able to read in
Chinese. So you wouldn't find many white Americans there, let alone timid
foreigners who have a hard time reading English as it was, let alone the
characters of the Chinese language. The basement's entrance looks like it could
be where they might stock their extra bulk boxes for storage. I'm curious by
nature, and it will probably be my undoing someday, but I walked down the
forbidden looking steps to explore and–oh, contraire to my assumption–it was
simply the lower level of the shop itself. Below was row after row of
chopsticks, cups, teapots of every kind, shape or size, and the largest variety
of loose-leaf tea I've ever seen. I was truly in teavana.
When I walked in yesterday, dripping
snot and soaking wet, I definitely stuck out, as usual, for being the tallest
and whitest woman in the store and then for knowing my way around like it was
my grandmother's shop. After I walked down the tiny stairs, meant for little
Asian feet, without breaking my neck, I bee-lined to the back wall and was
greeted by my favorite China man, who I can never understand. He smiled
timidly, surly not positive that I've been there a dozen times before and
watched as I perused the selections for anything new and found that beloved tea
of mine. Yes! Just what I was looking for, golden silk silver hook jasmine tea.
The crème della crème of jasmine green tea. Just what the doctor ordered. I
asked my Chinese friend for a two oz. measure to get me through the weekend and
thanked him with the few words of Chinese I could still remember from college.
Then I skipped all the way over to the register, paid for my tea and was out
the door and on my way home to my cozy little bed and a steamy pot of jasmine
tea to make Marcy all better again.
No comments:
Post a Comment